


Occluded Memories

by HathorAroha



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 19:39:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13508406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HathorAroha/pseuds/HathorAroha
Summary: The morning after Agathe had placed the curse on the castle and village, Jean Potts awakes the next morning with a feeling that he has forgotten something. The name Beatrice means nothing to him now.





	Occluded Memories

One morning Jean Potts wakes up, and he knows he has forgotten _something._ And that something is very important—no, _precious_ —to him, but he hasn’t the foggiest idea of what or why. He looks over at the other half of his bed with its blankets still tucked and the pillows undisturbed, and does not think it unusual in the least. He takes no note of what should have been a familiar scent tucked in the pillows, a pleasant smell that should have reminded him of—but no, whatever he almost remembered vanishes into the impenetrable fog of lost memory.

When he opens his wardrobe, he is befuddled to find not just his own coats and vests, but dresses too—practical, of a very English style. He puzzles for a moment, until an errant thought convinces Jean the English dresses must have been left behind by a long-gone lady of the house. Perhaps he ought to donate these to the chapel or a neighbour in need. Tomorrow, if he has time, he will donate them. They smell of tea, and no fond recollection stirs from this scent. There is nothing.

Below the coats, jackets, and all, are neatly arranged footwear; he can tell immediately which belong to him—there are tiny flecks of dried clay (the shoes with worse caking live outside) from his hours at his pottery wheel. The smaller shoes that clearly fit a woman’s foot have low heels and there is nothing overly fancy about them. Jean supposes this lady of the house who previously lived here had been one for practicality with no need for fanciness in her fashion. Perhaps a lady relative of the farmer he regularly sees at the market might want them. He isn’t sure how old the shoes are, but they look like solid, genuine leather, sure to last many years.

In a drawer, he finds neatly folded white kerchiefs with “Beatrice”—a name that means nothing to him—embroidered in the corner. Surely, Beatrice must have been the name of the woman who no doubt had resided here long before he did. Odd, though, that they had been left behind, unless—and Jean shudders to think of it—the lady had died some time ago and no-one had bothered to collect her personal belongings. A shame, really—she clearly had some very practical leanings in her costuming, and surely there were plenty of other women out there who would be grateful for a pair of strong shoes or a practical everyday dress.

Yet, under these charitable ideas, something insists he has to hold on to them. But why? Why hang on to something he clearly has no need for? There were at least half a dozen villagers in Villeneuve who could have used them, no doubt of it. Surely, someone out there would be grateful for a donated pair of leather shoes or a warm practical dress for cooler months. But still, despite these thoughts, the insistence to keep these belongings tug at him, insisting that they stay there. He could think more on it later, if not tomorrow, anyway.

Dressed for the day, Jean makes his way down the hall toward the kitchen, until an open door compels him to pause before it. On looking inside, he feels like he is seeing it for the first time, despite having lived many years in this house, and so surely the room should be as familiar to him as his own.

This room with its ajar door is clearly a child’s bedroom. It is extraordinarily tidy, the small bed with its light blue blanket tucked in at the corners. On the foot of this small bed are a couple of neatly folded, freshly laundered extra blankets, in case the child—he didn’t have a child—would get chilly in the night.

The walls of the bedroom are striped white and green, and, there, between two windows, are white letter blocks that spell out “La chambre de Chip.” He guesses Chip is a nickname--for what else could it be but that? Other than this thought, there is nothing more. No recognition, no sudden flood of memories of a little boy who might once have lived here. He gives the small side table with an unlit candle a glance, and the same for the dresser leaning next to a small clotheshorse.

How had he lived in this house all these years and not thought to do anything with the unused knick-knacks in this bedroom? Could he really have somehow _forgotten_ to give away what is in here, or at least store away the furniture and all in some spare room at the back of the house? And, again, that sudden, strong feeling like he should leave this room and its furnishings be, and just wait a little longer before deciding what to do with it all.

The kitchen feels strange when he ambles in—it shouldn’t feel so… _empty_ . He cannot put his finger on why, for all appears to be in order, the benches spotless and all the dishes clean and tidied away. The yellow flowers in the green vase sitting on the dining table look as fresh as ever. The only thing that seems to be amiss about the kitchen is the absence of the usual scent of brewed tea and soft lavender, but this morning, there is none of that. He doesn’t know why it ought to smell like tea and lavender, but it seems strangely _wrong_ that it doesn’t. He passes by a chair—again, that name, _Chip_ , carved into its back in small letters, and still the name does not stir more than a fleeting glance from him.

He doesn’t remember having this many pictures on the wall, nor so many trinkets on the window sills. Did someone give him the salt and pepper shakers shaped like two geese? Had he forgotten where he’d acquired the gorgeous vase with the simple vine-like decoration? The collection of tea sets in a glass cabinet—he cannot remember ever having had that many teapots in his life. But there they were behind the glass doors of the cabinet, a tiny silver key in its keyhole.

Strange, _very_ strange, this feeling like a part of the house was missing something more dear to him than any material possession he owns. Something more precious to him than life. He feels it in the teapots sitting quietly in the cabinet, the chair with the word “Chip” in it, and the absence of the scent of tea filling the kitchen.

No matter--it is still early in the morning. All he needs is his customary weak, watery coffee and some bread and butter and soft-boiled eggs. Once he had his fill of breakfast, the fog of confusion would lift, showing the answer with unmistakable clarity. Breakfast always cleared his thoughts.

Only—breakfast, for the first time in many years, does not clear away stubborn fog. It still hangs there pressing white mist against his thoughts. Maybe he just had to give it time. Just distract himself with something else—like his pottery—and it would come to him in a flash of inspiration, and he would wonder just how he had not realised the answer in the first place. Just give it time, and it would come to him.

He gives his thoughts time—lots of it—a whole day as a matter of fact. But the fog is thick, as it hangs over his thoughts. His pottery work gives him some distraction at least, as does the hubbub of the village in the height of day. The noise should have distracted him, should have set his mind at ease, let him concentrate on what he had to do. But the cacophony of daytime was missing something precious, more precious than jewels and wealth.

For one, the house, on returning home at the end of the day, is much too quiet inside and outside, despite the menagerie of noise all around him. A sound and hubbub as precious as life itself that _should_ have been there somehow, is sorely absent. There should have been a kettle whistling on the coals, infusing the kitchen with the scent of comforting tea. There ought to have been much more laughter and bright conversation than just him talking to neighbours passing by on their way home. His donkey whinnies at him, some children stop by to feed the animal, and that strange absence flares again, a knowing that there was something missing.

When he finishes making a dinner for himself after the day’s work, he is disconcerted to discover he has made enough for about three people. That wasn’t right—only he resides here and he isn’t expecting visitors. At the same time, some instinct tells him that three _is_ right, that there is nothing wrong with having made enough for three people. But he always had lived alone in the house for as long as he can remember, and, by that logic, there should be no reason in the world he should have made a meal for three rather than one. Ah well, perhaps today just wasn’t the day for remembering things lost to him, and he just had a touch of absent-mindedness, that was all. All would be well in the morning after a good night’s rest.

Supposing he needed an earlier night than usual, he slips into his bed about half an hour before his usual time, turning aside to stare at the empty half of the bed, wondering why he feels it should not have been this way. If he thinks hard enough in the dark, Jean can nearly see someone lying there, wavy hair loose on the pillow, breathing soft and low as she drifts to sleep with her back turned to him. He imagines reaching out for that sleeper, gently tugging her to him, wrapping his arms around her waist, own eyes closing in the approach of slumber. Thinking of this, Jean aches with a longing that roots itself deep in his bones, his arm reaching across to that side of his bed, palm brushing against cold, undisturbed sheets. The cool sheets against his palm sends a shiver through his arm, and he draws his hand back, turning over to his other side, so he does not face that strangely lonely side of the bed.

The ache in his bones never quite goes away all that night, not even in the deepest of sleep, as though even his soul longs for what—or _whom_ ever—is missing.

Perhaps tomorrow, he would remember.  


End file.
